


Nothing Like a Party

by baku_midnight



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Kissing, M/M, Party, Probably ooc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 21:12:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4850711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baku_midnight/pseuds/baku_midnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha makes it his goal to get as many birthday kisses as he can, to Jensen’s unsurpassed horror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Like a Party

**Author's Note:**

> Something I've had kicking around for a long time. Happy late birthday to you, Misha! I know, an intrusive fanfic about your sexual preferences is exactly what you wanted.

The season-opening party coincides with Misha’s birthday, and so of course he’s gonna take advantage of all that free booze and free food, and guests already hand-picked to kiss his ass, to have a one-night nigh-Saturnalian celebration. The event is mostly to welcome the new writers and some members of staff fresh from the CW apprenticeship, so while there are some corporate suits hanging around, any intimidation they might otherwise garner is diminished by being extremely outnumbered by regular members of the SPN family.

 

“Just so you know, it’s my birthday,” Misha announces to any conveniently-gathered groups of people he sees throughout the evening, while he works on getting comfortably drunk off the liquor and the attention. He’s definitely a little buzzed already, and diligently working his way up to “plastered”, which Jensen finds equal parts adorable, and stressful as _fuck._

 

While they make their way around the party, Jensen sticks close to Misha like a duckling following his mother, as if Misha’s the only person he knows in a sea of strangers, which is hardly the case, as he knows practically everyone here, most of them by name, and the remaining by face. But Jared’s with Genevieve and everyone else is noisily and easily talkative, separating into groups to chat and gossip, and Jensen’s grateful to be able to tail Misha with the same boyish awkwardness he does his wife, rather than making his own way in the trying social landscape.

 

Misha, as always, has no trouble with the interest of onlookers, or if he does, he doesn’t show it. To get into TV, one has to have a love of attention, some diva-ish tendencies, sure, Jensen knows he has some himself—only, he likes to be able to turn it _off_ during down-time. For the first half of the party, he uses Misha as a human shield.

 

“What do you want for your present?” Genevieve asks on one of their turns around the warehouse, expression half-way between sensuous and bubbly.

 

“Just seeing all of your lovely faces is enough,” Misha croons, to the responding eye-rolls of everyone in earshot, “just give to charity or sponsor a child in need on my behalf,” he adds, then, with a devious little smirk rounding his liquor-pinked cheeks, continues, “although, this is _my_ day, I think I’m entitled to a bit of inappropriate touching – I expect a kiss from each and every one of you before you leave.”

 

Jensen lets out a near-hysterical scoff and palms his forehead. “How do you not have mono _all the time?_ ”

 

“It doesn’t have to be on the mouth!” Misha defends quickly, “although that is encouraged.”

 

There’re a few people who take him up on his offer – mainly women in the makeup department who seem a little too eager, if not _prepared_ for the task, grasping Misha’s face at the seams of his jaws and firmly kissing his liquor-burned mouth. Jensen watches and tries not to have a panic attack because this is definitely _not_ how he was raised, and besides he is _not_ jealous, because that is not even a _thought_ in his mind.

 

A lot of the old guys on the staff just shake their heads in exasperation and back away like spooked cats with their tails raised, as if any act of homoeroticism will melt their faces off like in the scene from _Raiders_ , but Guy and a couple of others think it’s a great laugh and much to the amusement of Misha, and the horror of Jensen, they kiss the Birthday Boy sloppily all over his lovely, stubbled face.

 

By the look of shock and the occasional recoil it seems to Jensen that Misha was likely just joking, but is now too caught up in the consequences of his mostly innocent request to resist. He enjoys the kisses and hugs and friendly-yet-manly back-slaps he receives all evening until well into the night when he is well and thoroughly sloshed.

 

By the end of the night Misha’s worked his way through about a quarter of the crowd, a low score he seems dissatisfied with given the vigor with which he takes another row of bitter shots at a standing table. Jensen rolls his eyes and downs a good finger or two or _seven_ of scotch and tries to swallow his heart palpitations along with the liquor.

 

Genevieve swoops in and plants one on Misha’s cheek, sighing into his ear, smile wide on her face. Her rosy-cheeked inebriation is all too apparent, making her look warm and mellow. Jared leans over and wraps an arm around Misha’s neck, snuffling a wet kiss into the side of his neck, and Misha lets out what sounds like a – no, that’s _definitely_ a _giggle_.

 

“How many d’you get?” Gen asks, eyes dancing merrily over Misha’s face while the man watches her through a haze of pleased intoxication. He probably doesn’t realize that his hand is drifting over towards Jensen’s, fingers brushing blindly at the back of his palm. Jensen doesn’t say anything, just swigs more booze and pulls his arm back against his side.

 

“Not nearly enough!” Misha slurs, “it’s amazing how people will just, like, _kiss_ you, if you just ask!”

 

“Now you know what it’s like to be a hot girl,” Gen answers, flipping her hair over her shoulder and smirking at the laughs she gets.

 

Misha crinkles his nose at her, looking at the empties on the bar table and briefly recalling playing “spin the bottle” during high school parties…and college ones. And some of Vicki’s more recent get-togethers as well… But right now, the bottles are spinning on their own. He sits down on the stool to attempt to regain some of his equilibrium, but misses and nearly ends up on the floor.

 

Jensen’s arms shoot out before he even realizes it and he grabs Misha’s arms, hauling him back up to standing. He’s tipsy, but not nearly as much as his colleague, he realizes quickly, dragging Misha back up to his feet.

 

Gen and Jared are laughing breathlessly, arm in arm. They make a good couple, Jensen thinks and frowns, as Misha leans heavily against his front.

 

“So we’re gonna head to Davie’s,” Jared slurs out, wrapping an arm around his wife’s shoulder, pulling her tiny body close to his. “You comin’?”

 

Jensen regards his friend levelly, keeping a hand planted on Misha’s back, hidden from sight but anchoring them together while Misha catches the attention of a staff member across the hall and begins loudly conversing with him. “Yeah, no, I think I’m gonna make sure Mr. Krushnic here gets home safe.”

 

Jared nods his agreement, knowing quite well that Jensen wasn’t about to follow him and his much-more _rad_ wife to a bar at midnight. They turn and leave with a last goodbye, and a final congrats to Misha, who _whoops_ enthusiastically.

 

“Ready to go, big guy?” Jensen says calmly in Misha’s ear, which is all but yelling in the clamorous din of the party.

 

“Yeah, sure, just, lemme say goodbye to everyone,” Misha answers, looking around the room for someone he has yet to interact with.

 

Jensen grips Misha’s shirt at the small of his back, attempting to steer him towards the door in a way that’s probably a little more forceful than is required, but just then, one of the new techs – Paul, or Bob or someone, who knows, comes by, and Misha opens his arms to him.

 

“Can I have a birthday kiss?” he drones, drunk beyond belief, but the man shrugs and obliges, and to Jensen’s horror, kisses Misha squarely on the lips. Misha’s eyes fall shut, pink cheeks glowing and eyelashes lowering to a graceful arc across his cheekbones, as he gently kisses back. It lasts only a second but Jensen tears his eyes away, stammering out something that probably resembles “haveagoodnightyeahokaybye”, and pushes Misha towards the exit of the warehouse.

 

They take a taxi home, Jensen glaring out of the window of the van. This night took way too much out of him. He feels drained being next to someone so open with affection, someone who talks and hugs and holds and _shares_ his emotions so freely with everyone. And the kissing? That was just…unheard of. Jensen recalls his mother mentioning once that there were places in Europe where a kiss on the lips was the appropriate greeting for _everyone:_ friends, family, distant relations – but for however worldly he liked to think of himself, Jensen didn’t buy it. He would have to see it to believe it. Actually – no, he did _not_ want to see it.

 

Misha’s hand keeps creeping across the seat at every turn, towards Jensen’s decidedly elusive fingers.

 

They go upstairs and Jensen unlocks the door. Tumbling into the apartment, Misha goes to the sink and rinses his mouth with plain water. He’s sweet as hell when he’s drunk and gorgeous to boot – messy hair to rival the keenest bedhead, and lips and cheeks the same naughty fuchsia hue. Jensen looks away, stepping backwards into the doorway.

 

“Aren’t you coming in?” Misha asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist, gesturing to Jensen’s retreating frame.

 

“I think you’ve had enough fun for one night,” Jensen mumbles, waving him off with one hand. The cool air remains still for a moment, a previously unknown tension pulsing between the two of them.

 

“Are you mad at me or something?” Misha asks coolly, and Jensen waves him off a second time.

 

“No, no,” he keeps his gaze averted to the ground, “how you decide to spend your evening is your business.”

 

“Spend my…?” Misha stutters, then bursts out laughing, a barely-controlled, bright sound, smile all gum and glistening white. “You mean about the kissing? Oh, Jensen…you know, a kiss on the mouth is a common greeting in some places in Europe.”

 

Of course it is.

 

“Yeah, well,” Jensen counters, “we’re not in Europe; this is America.”

 

“Canada,” Misha corrects.

 

“Yeah,” Jensen concedes, “well.”

 

The silence is dim and interrupted only by the constant buzz of the fridge in the kitchenette. Misha looks puzzled and patient while Jensen quietly fumes. The image of Misha and that…guy…is rolling through his head like a black and white film, over and over again until he can only see their faces, lips meeting, locking gently, firmly. The images blare across his vision to the exclusion of all else, and by the time he notices Misha moving, the man is inches from his chest.

 

“I uh…never got a birthday kiss from you,” Misha mutters, trailing a finger across Jensen’s chest and landing on his shoulder, holding it gently, the way he does when he wants Jensen’s attention. As far as grabbing areas go, the shoulder is intimate, but safe, and secure.

 

Jensen frowns at his inebriated colleague, serious look mingled with anxiousness as Misha’s hand draws gently down his back. He wants to say no. Wants to remind Misha how a proper Southern boy doesn’t _do_ that kind of thing, especially not with people he feels close to. Wants to turn on his heel and stomp outta there and not look back until he’s had a good night’s sleep and an IV drip of caffeine. But Misha is looking up at him with asking eyes and, well.

 

Jensen never had the slightest modicum of resistance against Misha.

 

He ducks his head the couple of inches it takes to join their lips, meaning to be quick and out of there in two seconds, tops. But the kiss lingers, the touch of warm, yielding pink lips softening under his own tempts him, like a bee to nectar he is drawn closer to the sweetness of Misha’s mouth. He turns his head, pulling another sweet, gentle kiss, then a third, feeling Misha’s hand tense and then loosen on his shoulder.

 

Despite the stubble and the hard jaw and the skin that is insistently male, it’s the gentlest, sweetest kiss Jensen has ever had, and it makes him suddenly regretful that neither of them is going to remember this in the morning – Misha, because of the alcohol, and Jensen due to a rigorous regimen of post-party denial. When they pull away, Misha blinks up at him, blue eyes practically aglow with warmth that makes Jensen want to stick around the apartment a little longer…before he comes to his senses.

 

“Alright, good night,” he says abruptly, and Misha shakes his head.

 

“Hold on—” his rebuttal is interrupted by a huge yawn, “you can stay.”

 

Jensen can’t help but smile a little at his co-star’s naïve charm, but heads to the door just the same, feeling Misha’s hand slide off of his shoulder, clinging a little at the fabric. “I don’t think so. See you tomorrow.”

 

“Okay, see you tomorrow,” Misha slurs, rubbing at his eyes with his fist. The messy, exhausted look is beyond adorable, but whatever urge Jensen feels to get back in there and scoop him up is negated by the nagging pull of sleep at the back of his own head. Misha reaches for the door, and as Jensen turns his back to go, he thinks maybe this particular evening will be a little bit harder to forget.


End file.
